“That’s the plan. Your assistant sent me all the travel info and bookings.”
It feels odd to say he has an assistant in the first place. She runs all his gigs, like checking in on his hotel accommodations, making sure he has weekly groceries, and booking sponsorships.
“Did you get the camera I picked out for you?”
I have no idea how to pay back his generosity, especially with such expensive gifts. He still buys me things even though he pays for everything. Lately, I struggle between feelings of guilt and gratitude.
“Yes, thanks again. I have it all set up, and I’m pumped to vlog. I already bought a hand-held tripod to film F1 stuff.” I smile down at him.
He doesn’t miss a beat, lifting the weight over his chest as he continues to chat. “Can’t wait to watch the videos once you start. And you have all your stuff packed up?”
“Yes, Dad, I got everything ready two days ago like you asked.” I roll my eyes.
He chuckles as his almond-shaped eyes look into mine. “I hope I won’t have to put up with this attitude all season long. I can’t keep up with your teenage hormones.”
“You're a year older than me. Relax with throwing the teenager word around. Any hormone issues are a thing of the past. I’m twenty-three, not fifteen.”
His body shudders. Good. That’s what he gets for not thinking through his words. He needs to watch what he says since film crews will follow him around all the time.
He gets up and wipes down his gym equipment because that’s the kind of guy he is: put-together, organized, and responsible. Respectable people clean their workout equipment, making sure to put everything back where it belongs, while people like me never enter the gym to begin with.
Where Santi’s dependable and secure, I tend to have good intentions with poor execution. I respect my brother’s life decisions, but I’m in a transitional phase at the moment. So I get to travel the world, learn about myself, and grow up. Our family knows I have to pull it together eventually. And I most definitely will. But like a fine wine, I’m taking my time.
My time includes sipping drinks by the pool while Santi competes across the globe in twenty-one different races. No, I’m kidding. Like any other decent European, I love F1, which means I’ll cheer him on every step of the way, or wheel rotation. But you get what I mean.
My brother and I did everything together while growing up. His kart races were what we all did as a family activity, and no one was shocked when he became an F1 racer—all at a world-record-breaking age of twenty-one years old. I can’t imagine the gratification Santi experiences knowing that Bandini realizes his potential and wants to capitalize on it. His new contract reinforces his lifetime efforts in the racing community, representing a new chapter in his driving career.
Basically, my big bro has the talent and drive. Pun intended.
It’s in Santi’s weight room that I make a promise to him.
“I solemnly swear I’ll be up to good.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Did you quote Harry Potter to me?”
“Not really. I changed it up so it’s all me.”
He snickers at me. “You’re a piece of work.”
Oh, sweet brother of mine, don’t we both know it.
Our parents show up an hour later for Sunday dinner. Mom’s homecooked paella invades my nose while sangria coats my tongue. They beam when Santi and I tell them how I plan to join him for the race season, pride and happiness flowing off them.
“All your hard work has paid off, including those long days on the dirt tracks before you moved up to the big leagues with the Formula divisions. We appreciate all the sacrifices you made, including school.” My dad tips his glass before taking a sip of his drink.
Our parents like to share their appreciation for everything Santi has done since he gained his massive contract with Bandini, including paying off the rest of their mortgage, setting up a savings account for them, and sending them on a vacation. More selfless acts from him. An uncontrollable pang of jealousy runs through me at his ability to care for our family. The uncertainty of never living up to anything he does intimidates me. His success makes me happy—don’t get me wrong—but I’m nervous about not accomplishing anything close to his greatness.
“We can’t wait to visit Bandini when you compete in Barcelona for your home race.” My mom claps her hands, a gesture I tend to copy. Her eyes shine under the chandelier in Santi’s dining room while her brown hair flows around her.
Santi smiles at our parents. “I can’t wait to be back and competing in Spain. Home races are the biggest races for drivers.”